Free The Swing Voter of Staten Island by Arthur Nersesian Page B

actually want to live in this hellhole?” Uli said quietly.
    “Just ask anyone here what it was like being homeless. After being evacuated when Camille struck, we were given housing in Queens shelters. Then when the bombs went off, we were moved out into a hangar at LaGuardia Airport. Try living there on cots with thousands of people and tell me this isn’t better.” She took a deep sigh. “Besides, if you don’t like it here, you can always file an appeal.”
    “Why couldn’t they just give us subsidies and let us stay in Flushing or Prospect Park?” burst the older woman who had just tried silencing them. “That’s what they did during the San Francisco earthquake! Why the hell did they ship us out to a radioactive desert in the middle of nowhere?”
    “You didn’t have to come here,” Kennesy replied, and explained to Uli, “I don’t know about you, but everyone here applied to get in. There’s still a lot of poor people living in old New York.”
    “What do you mean a radioactive desert?” Uli asked the older woman.
    “There’s no scientific proof of radioactivity,” Kennesy shot back.
    “This is where they set off all the A-bombs back in the ’50s,” the lady explained to Uli.
    “And in case you don’t remember,” Kennesy countered, “they did try subsidies. They handed out supplies in the streets of New York. Everyone got in line. Do you remember who eventually wound up with the bulk of stock?”
    The older woman made a sour face.
    “The Mafia, that’s who. No one has ever starved or frozen here. Hell, we even got cars and other basic luxuries.”
    “We can’t travel or have children!” the lady barked.
    “People were homeless . They couldn’t afford to travel anyway. And why the hell would someone who doesn’t even have a home want to have a homeless baby?”
    “So only the rich should reproduce, is that it?”
    “Look, you want to blame someone for sticking us out here? How about the terrorists who hit the city!”
    Before Uli could intervene, the driver called out, “Eighth Street, Crapper HQ. Last stop.”
    Uli and Oric got off with the cute hurricane evacuee, who bid them farewell and headed south down Lafayette Street.
    Uli and Oric moved eastward to Astor Place. Suddenly, two hands grabbed Uli’s elbows from behind. A thick arm looped over his head and across his neck. Back-kicking his assailant’s kneecap, Uli grabbed the arm and flung a fat bespectacled kid up over his back and onto the pavement. Just as quickly, a third and fourth pair of beefy hands grabbed at his arms. The fat kid pressed a wet rag against Uli’s face. Another pair of hands grabbed his knees and lifted him. As Uli struggled, he smelled the chloroform compound and held his breath. Twisting his head around, he realized that the person holding the rag to his face was the guy from midtown with the pointy bamboo hat. Uli struggled to free one hand, but he felt his consciousness thinning out.
    “Ma! Da! Ma-Da! I miss you!” he heard Oric yell.
    Dazed, Uli was now being lifted into a van. The geeky fat boy kept the rag pressed tightly over his mouth. Uli found himself fading to Oric’s screams.

10/29/80

    W ake up now! Wake up! GET THE HELL UP! GO!
    “What?” The sun was bright in the doorway, so it had to be the next morning. Uli was hanging upside down with his hands bound together.
    She’s going to torture you! You’re going to have one chance and that’s it!
    “Help me!” Uli shouted back.
    Where are you? It was the blond man. Yet the voice was female. How could this be?
    “I don’t know,” he said aloud. Looking around, he saw that he was alone and dismissed the interaction as the afterwash of a bizarre dream.
    An awful sulfuric stench pulled him to full consciousness. He appeared to be in a barnyard. His lower section was numb with pain. He could still hear Oric’s shrieks nearby.
    “How do you know about the blast?” Uli heard a woman’s voice shouting.
    During an interlude of